


Left Out in the Storm

by BlaiddGwyn (dragonLeighs)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Injured Jaskier | Dandelion, Injury, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonLeighs/pseuds/BlaiddGwyn
Summary: Geralt came back to the inn to find Jaskier missing. Assuming he found someone to spend the night with it he thought nothing of it. That was until he overheard some men in the corner bragging about hurting the bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 268





	Left Out in the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be a short fic but then Geralt wanted revenge so I let him have it.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr!](https://blaidd-gwyn.tumblr.com/)

Geralt was returning from a hunt with Roach. It was raining and brought a biting cold signalling the beginning of winter and he couldn’t wait to get back to the relative warmth of his shared room at the inn. He had been contracted to kill a water hag. He had told Jaskier to stay behind and for once he agreed, preferring to stay dry and warm in the tavern, playing for coin instead of wading into a swamp in the middle of a storm.

He collected his pay from the alderman on his way back, dropping the head he carried at his feet to leave a dark viscous puddle beneath it as proof. He made sure Roach was settled in the stable before finally going inside. He was greeted with the damp warmth of the room. It stank of stale sweat, spilt ale and piss and it was almost too loud to be bearable for his sensitive hearing, but it was a welcome change from the storm outside.

He scanned the room as he made his way to the bar but found no trace of Jaskier. He would usually be standing on a table at this point in the night, singing drinking songs and getting his audience to clap and sing along. He assumed someone had caught the bard’s eye and would probably see him the next morning. It certainly wasn’t be the first time so he tried not to worry, despite the fact he hadn’t done so in a few months.

He ordered some food at the bar and sat at an empty table in the corner, removing his soaking cloak. He wasn’t surprised the bard had left, he only hoped he wouldn’t be chased out of town by a cuckolded husband. At least he would get the small bed to himself as they had been unable to get two rooms.

His food arrived, placed on the table by a scared looking young woman. As he ate, he couldn’t help but overhear snippets of conversation from the other patrons. Most of it was idle gossip which he tuned out but a group of men on the other side of the room caught his attention. He only managed to make out bits of what they were saying.

“…filthy mutant…”

“…monster…”

He’d heard it all before of course, and usually it didn’t bother him after years of hearing the same thing over and over. Treated with suspicion wherever he went, despite the fact that he risked his life to help them. Things had been better since Jaskier started singing about him. Most of the songs were exaggerated or almost entirely made up but the apparent heroics helped sway their opinion of him. It even meant he tended to get paid more for a job.

Usually when people started insulting him, he had to hold the bard back from fighting them. On one memorable occasion he had grabbed Geralt’s dagger from its sheath at his hip before he realised what was happening and thrown it with surprising accuracy at one man who had called Geralt a monster, landing right next to his head, buried in the wooden wall. He’d had to physically restrain Jaskier and drag him away before he did something they would both regret. They didn’t get the dagger back. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the sentiment, it was just that usually the type of people who insult a witcher to their face are also well trained in fighting, which Jaskier was not.

He was about to tune the men out when one of them said something. “…got what was coming to him. That bastard isn’t any better than the monster himself.”

He had no doubt they were talking about Jaskier and Geralt immediately thought the worst. Food forgotten, he stood and made his way over to the men. They spotted him approaching immediately and a few of them fell silent, the sour tang of fear rising in the air around them.

“Where’s the bard,” the witcher growled out.

One of the men, presumably the leader, sneered at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know, mutant scum.”

Geralt grabbed a fistful of the man’s disgusting shirt and pulled him to his feet. The room went silent. “Tell me where he is.”

“Or what? You gonna kill me with all these witnesses butcher?”

Deciding this route was pointless, he threw the man to the ground, grabbed his cloak and headed out into the storm. He examined the area around the outside, hoping to find signs of a struggle. It was difficult due to the sheer number of footprints in the churned mud, but he spotted what looked like a group of footprints centred around twin lines where someone had been dragged.

He followed the tracks toward the outskirts of town until they became indistinguishable. He began searching the area, checking down narrow alleys between buildings. If they were going to hurt Jaskier, they likely didn’t want to be spotted.

“Jaskier!” he called, hoping the bard hadn’t been left bound and gagged or knocked unconscious. He strained to hear anything over the noise of the storm but got nothing. He couldn’t pick up his scent either, the smell of mud and rain dampening everything else.

He passed yet another alley, piled with crates when he smelt something. It was weak but unmistakable, the coppery tang of blood. He made his way down cautiously, ready to fight if need be. Instead he spotted a pair of familiar boots sticking out from behind the stack of crates.

“Jaskier,” the witcher said. He moved to the other side of the crates to see the bard unconscious, lying on his side in the mud with a nasty looking stab wound in his thigh, bleeding sluggishly. He knelt in the mud, already taking off his cloak to cover the prone bard. He was soaked through and his skin was icy to the touch. He looked dead but the witcher could hear his faint heartbeat.

He carefully picked him up, careful of his injury, one hand beneath his knees and the other around his back. He noticed the shoulder he had been lying on seemed to rest at an odd angle. He made his way back to the inn as fast as he could.

He almost kicked the door off its hinges when he entered. The room was once again silent as he marched up the narrow stairs to their room, eyes fixed on the pale bard, soaked through and wrapped in the witcher’s large cloak.

Once he made it to their room he lay the bard down on the bed, immediately stripping him down to his smallclothes and wiping away the mud as best as he could manage. His clothes were ruined and he was sure to be upset when he saw the state of them but that was the least of his concerns currently.

There was knock at the door. Geralt stopped what he was doing and grabbed one of his daggers. He opened the door a crack and saw the barmaid from earlier. “I was sent by Dimira to light the fire. I also brought these, for the bard.” she said, indicating to a bowl of steaming water and a rag. With a hum, he stepped aside letting her enter the room. Geralt was grateful that there were some decent people in this gods forsaken town.

The witcher found a number of bruises littering Jaskier’s chest and arms along with a gash on his temple surrounded by a dark bruise, already spreading to give him a black eye. The men had obviously given him a beating before stabbing him, likely hoping he would die slowly, either from the cold or blood loss. If they had wanted him dead quickly, they would have slit his throat or stabbed him in the chest.

Geralt shut that line of thought down immediately for his own sake. They hadn’t done that, Jaskier was cold and injured but he would recover. He was fine, he found him in time.  
Once the fire was going the maid left. He took the rag she had placed by the bed and soaked it in the water. It felt hot but welcome on his cold skin and imagined it would be almost painful for Jaskier if he were awake. He carefully cleaned away the dirt and blood, the rain having spread it all down his leg. He was pleased to see he began shivering, his body finally starting to warm itself up. He dried his skin with a clean rag from his bag which Jaskier often used when treating Geralt’s wounds.

He treated the stab wound first. It was deep but the bard had been lucky, and the knife hadn’t severed an artery. He would’ve been dead in minutes otherwise. The witcher shut down that thought too.

The edges had scabbed over somewhat but started bleeding again after being moved and cleaned. He carefully cleaned and disinfected it as best as he could before stitching it, glad that Jaskier wasn’t awake to feel it. He applied a salve over it before bandaging it. The resulting scar would be long but become barely noticeable with time. He pulled the blankets over his lower half as he went to treat the head wound.

There wasn’t much to do other than make sure it was clean. It didn’t require any stitches he was glad to see. He applied a thin layer of ointment over the bruising to help with healing. Then came the shoulder.

He felt around the area and determined it had been dislocated, not broken. Not surprising as he had probably landed on it after being knocked out. It would be difficult to move his arm back into place, especially with the intense shivering, but he knew the longer he left it the harder it would be as the swelling got worse. He decided to get it over with. At least then Jaskier wouldn’t have to deal with the pain this way.

He hated having to do this to him, but it was necessary. Deciding on the best way of doing this, he gently eased his arm around until he felt it pop back into place with a crack. Jaskier let out a pained sound at that, blinking open his eyes. “Ger’lt?”

“Jaskier.”

“They gone?” The bard looked around the small room blearily, not really seeing anything but trying his best to scan for danger. Geralt carefully moved his injured arm to rest across his chest, trying to prevent him from moving it.

“They’re gone. We’re in the inn. You’re safe now,” he explained. Jaskier visibly relaxed, sinking down on the bed. “How’s your head?”  
“Hurts. Feel sick.” He closed his eyes, looking exhausted. “’m cold.”

“You were out in the rain for a while. Don’t go to sleep yet.” Geralt picked up a large strip of cloth and began folding it to make a sling. He helped the bard to sit up, telling him to hold his injured arm in place. He tied the sling behind his neck, trying to keep his arm as level as possible. He then piled the few pillows behind him so that he could remain more upright. He pulled the blankets up to his chin once he was satisfied he was lying comfortably, even getting one from their pack to make sure the bard was warm enough. His shivering has lessened and some colour had returned to his face.

“Try not to move your arm too much or else it won’t heal properly.”

Jaskier looked at him then with a bit of fear. “C’n I still play m’ lute?” He slurred. Geralt didn’t know if it was from the cold or the head injury.

Geralt shrugged. “Not right now, no. It’s got to heal first. But after I don’t see why not. Just, don’t make it any worse.” He began placing the medical supplies back in his bag. Once he was done, he sat on the bed next to Jaskier. “I need to check your concussion isn’t too serious, can you to look at me?”

Jaskier obliged, blinking up at the witcher with cornflower blue eyes. They seemed slightly unfocussed, but the pupils were the same size and he managed to track Geralt’s movements well enough. Satisfied, he stood and went over to the door. “I’m going to get you some food. Don’t fall asleep.”

Jaskier only hummed in response as Geralt left their room. As he entered the tavern below, he saw the men from earlier had gone. He was glad. As much as he wanted to make them pay, he didn’t want to be kicked out of the inn when Jaskier needed to rest. He wasn’t sure he would be able to restrain himself if they were still there.

He went to the bar and an older woman, came over to him immediately. He remembered her as the owner who Jaskier had talked to just a few hours ago about a room. The barmaid had said her name was Dimira. “How’s your bard, witcher?” she asked with genuine concern.

“He’ll live,” he growled out. “He needs food.”

“Of course.” She hurried off to the kitchen and returned much sooner than he expected with a bowl of broth and a pitcher of water. At his inquisitive expression she explained. “I had them put aside something for him in case he needed it. After seeing you carry him in the men you talked to left, the cowards. I’m not surprised, that little gang of theirs has been making trouble around here for years. If I had known anything was wrong, I would’ve told you master witcher. As it was, he stepped out for some air after singing and a while later the men followed. I hadn’t known he hadn’t come back in.”

“You couldn’t have known. And thank you.” He pulled out some coins to pay but she stopped him with her hand.

“It’s on the house.”

Geralt only managed a grunt of thanks before taking the broth and water back to the room. He found Jaskier half-awake in the same position he left him. “Jaskier,” the witcher said, trying to rouse him a little.

Jaskier blinked awake properly, wincing as he raised his head to look at Geralt. “You’re here,” he mumbled, sounding both surprised and confused.

“I don’t know where else you think I would be,” he said, setting down the broth on the floor next to the bed and poured a cup of water.

“I… you went… for a… monster? I was playing in the tavern. Then I was… outside? And some men were there. But you’re back now.” Jaskier struggled through his thoughts but seemed satisfied by his conclusion.

“Hmm. The men grabbed you when you went outside, took you to an alley and beat you up. They only hurt you because they wanted to get to me, the cowards.” He couldn’t quite keep all of the anger and regret from his voice as he spoke. The bard seemed too out of it to notice, only giving a quiet hum.

Geralt once again sat next to him on the bed and passed him the cup of water. Jaskier managed to hold it steady enough with his good arm, despite his shivering, to take a few sips before passing it back to Geralt. He set it on the floor and picked up the broth.

“You should eat, it’ll warm you up,” he said. He held up a spoonful of broth, not trusting Jaskier to keep it steady enough. After a moment of hesitation, he opened his mouth and allowed Geralt to feed him. It was slow going but Jaskier eventually managed to finish the bowl. Geralt was pleased to see his shivering had almost completely stopped aside from occasional tremors in his limbs and a healthy colour had returned to his face.

“How do you feel?”

“Better. A little less dead although I feel like I’ve been ground to a pulp.” He sounded exhausted but at least he was using actual sentences now.

“You should rest now. I’ll wake you up every couple of hours to make sure you’re okay.”

Jaskier nodded, closed his eyes and within a minute he was asleep. Geralt took an uncomfortable looking stool and placed it in the corner so he could watch both Jaskier and the door in case one of the men tried to come back, unlikely as that was. He refused to allow the bard to be hurt again by people who wanted to hurt him. He’d much rather be attacked directly, at least then he could do something about it.

As the night passed, Geralt woke Jaskier several times to make sure he didn’t succumb to the head injury. The witcher was exhausted after the fighting the water hag and taking care of Jaskier but had refused to allow himself to rest, knowing if he didn’t keep waking the bard, he may never wake again. He passed the time by making sure the fire kept going, treating his own minor injuries, cleaning his gear and meditating. The rain still lashed against the windows and the wind was howling, not showing any sign of letting up any time soon.

By morning he was satisfied he would be alright and headed down to the tavern to get them both some breakfast. Dimira was there already along with a few other men scattered across the many tables. “Witcher,” she greeted him, “how’s the bard?”

“He’s resting still. He should be fine.”

“That’s a relief. Here, I’ll go get you two some food.” She disappeared to the kitchen. Geralt scanned his eyes across the tavern, checking that none of the men from last night were around. The woman returned a few minutes later with two bowls of what appeared to be porridge. Geralt once again attempted to pay but was shut down again. “Food is free for you two. After you getting rid of the water hag and Jaskier being attacked, it’s the least I could do.”

“Thank you.”

He took the food back to their room. Jaskier was still asleep, snoring softly. Geralt placed one of the bowls on the floor and began eating his own. It was bland but filling. He filled his time with checking over his own wounds. They were only shallow to begin with and seemed to be healing well. They would probably be gone in another few days, not really even deep enough to scar thanks to his witcher healing.

Eventually Jaskier woke, blinking with the brightness of the room. “Geralt?” he mumbled, glancing over to where the witcher was sitting.

“Morning Jaskier. How do you feel?”

“Sore but I’m sure I’ll live.” He made an attempt to sit up, but he paled when he tried to move his injured arm.

“Easy bard,” Geralt said, coming to stand by the bed to help him upright.

“Thanks,” he gave a shaky smile. It was clear he was in more pain than he was saying.

Geralt retrieved the bowl from where he had put it on the floor. The porridge had cooled but it would still be good enough. “Here,” he said holding it out. Jaskier took it with his good arm and placed the bowl in his lap, taking the spoon in his left hand. He looked a bit like a child learning to feed himself with the spoon in his non-dominant hand but the witcher didn’t comment.

It took the bard a while but eventually he finished the food. “Is there any water?” he asked.

Geralt took the pitcher of water and emptied what was left into the cup, handing it to Jaskier. “I’ll get some more, don’t move,” he said, only realising his error a second too late.  
“I’d like to know where you think I would go,” he said, amusement colouring is voice.

Geralt only hummed. He disappeared downstairs briefly before returning to their small room. He poured a small amount of water into a pot and placed it above the fire to boil while he mixed some herbs from his bag, no doubt making some kind of potion.

Jaskier watched him work and didn’t notice when his awareness started to slip. He was jolted back to reality by a hand on his shoulder. He briefly thought the men from last night had returned but calmed when he looked up to see amber eyes staring at him with concern. “Jaskier, are you with me?”

“I- erm, yes?”

His response only earnt him a concerned hum and a steaming cup full of something bitter and herbal being pressed into his hand. “Drink that.”

He complied, taking a small sip of the mixture. It was bad, coating his tongue in a horrible bitter taste. He coughed, aggravating his shoulder and battered chest. “That’s foul! What is it?” he gasped once the pain had subsided.

“Just some herbs. No monster parts, don’t worry. It’ll help with the pain,” the witcher explained.

“I can’t drink this.” He held it out for Geralt to take as he couldn’t lean over and put it on the floor himself without causing too much pain. The witcher took it and went back to his bag. He put something else in it which he couldn’t see before stirring it and handing it back. “Try that.”

Jaskier hesitated, not wanting a repeat experience. He eventually took a small sip and, although it was still bitter, it was somewhat tempered by a sweetness that hadn’t been there before. “It’s better,” he grumbled before taking another gulp. “What did you add?”

“Honey. Comes in useful quite often. I don’t usually put it in tea though.”

“Then you, my friend, are missing out.” He took another gulp, already feeling some of the pain ebbing away. The “friend” comment only earnt him an annoyed hum. At least he had stopped denying it with words. One day he would get him to admit it though.

Geralt went and sat in the corner once more, inspecting his armour where the water hag had slashed him. The tear was small, salvageable. He took a large needle and some tough thread from his bag and began stitching it. It wasn’t neat work by any means, but it would do until he could have it repaired properly. Or possibly just replace the whole thing if he could save enough money. There were a number of places which had been repaired over the years. At this point he doubted much of the original thing was left.

There was a distinct lack of talking, he noticed a while later. He looked up to see Jaskier had fallen asleep again. Unsurprising considering the injuries he had sustained. It would take a long time before he was back to full health again between his shoulder and his leg.

Near midday there was a gentle knock at the door. Geralt stood and opened it. A young lad who he recognised as the stable hand stood at the threshold clutching a familiar lute in his hands. “I found this outside the tavern. I believe it belongs to the bard.”

Geralt took it from him, thanking him and giving him a silver coin before closing the door. Jaskier would cheer up a bit knowing he still had his precious lute. Sure enough, as he turned around he saw the bard was awake. “Stable hand found you lute.”

Instantly Jaskier’s face lit up. Geralt handed it to him, knowing he would want to check it for damage. “Oh! I’ve been so worried she was lost or broken.” He began rambling on about how it needed proper care or else it would sound wrong. He checked the wood for scratches and marks and was relieved to find none. It was slightly dirty from being left on the floor but must have landed somewhere out of the rain. Geralt didn’t comment on how he treated the instrument like a person, knowing all too well how it would turn on him talking to Roach.

“Geralt, would you pass me my lute case so I can clean her,” he said, gesturing to where the case was resting against the wall. With a grunt of mild annoyance he obliged, laying the case out on the bed next to Jaskier and opening it for him. “Thanks,” he said before pulling out the cloth he used to clean the lute along with some oil he liked to use to keep it looking it’s best.

Geralt watched him with mild interest. Despite having only one useable arm, he was determined and attentive. There wasn’t an inch of the instrument that hadn’t been thoroughly inspected and well-oiled by the time he was done. Geralt couldn’t help but compare it to his swords, paying close attention to their maintenance, making sure every edge was razor sharp.

Once he was satisfied, Jaskier packed up his supplies and shut the case, leaving the lute on his lap and idly plucked at the strings. There was no real melody but it was comforting to hear the notes. It had been too quiet before, Jaskier being asleep and then not having the energy to fill the silence with every random thought from his mind. The music was a very welcome change. Not that he would tell him that. He would never get another moment of peace again.

After having had enough of sitting around, he went downstairs under the pretence of getting food. There were more people around than there had been earlier but it was still relatively quiet. He asked Dimira about the men who attacked Jaskier. She told him they had a hold over the town. They threatened the alderman and his family, they took the town’s hard earnt money and crops. They even abused a few of the women of the town. It was well known that anyone who crossed them turned up dead a few days later. Geralt didn’t like messing with the affairs of men but he had no qualms about getting rid of monsters.

He returned to Jaskier with the food. “Oh no, I know that look,” the bard said upon the witcher’s return. “What are you plotting? Is it about me? Because if it is, although I’m flattered that you actually care, now is not exactly a good time to get us kicked out of town.”

He was only met with a “hmm” and a plate of bread and cheese. “Geralt, please. Tell me what’s going on?” he said, much gentler than before.  
“The men who hurt you control this town. The people are terrified of them but they’re powerless.”

“And you’re out looking for revenge,” Jaskier said and he wasn’t entirely wrong. He knew it wasn’t a wise decision to take on a matter relating to man and not beast, it wasn’t his area. And yet, he just couldn’t let it go. They had gone out of their way to hurt Jaskier just to get to him.

“The people all want them gone from what I could tell.” Meaning in theory they wouldn’t be chased out of town.

“Are you sure about this? I’d rather not be sleeping rough just yet.” Jaskier said. He had a good point of course. Sleeping outside while the storm was still raging would almost certainly send the bard’s health spiralling downwards.

“I’ll speak to the alderman.” He put his armour on, strapped his steel sword to his back, food forgotten.

“Be careful.”

Geralt answered with a hum before pulling on his thankfully dry cloak and leaving the room. He was sure Jaskier would be fine for a few hours. He headed straight out the front door, only stopping by the stables quickly to check on Roach. She seemed perfectly happy in her stall, munching on some oats.

The alderman’s house was near the centre of town. It didn’t take long for him to get there. He banged his fist on the heavy door. A moment passed before he was greeted by the familiar face of the alderman. “Master witcher, what do you want? I payed you last night.”

Something seemed off with the man and he suspected the gang had been here earlier. “I’m not here about the water hag. I have other… business I wish to talk to you about.”  
“Very well witcher, you may as well come in.” He stood aside to allow Geralt inside, indicating where he could hang his cloak. It wasn’t a grand house, only slightly larger than the others surrounding it. “If this is about what happened to your bard then I’m sorry. Dimira told me he’s still alive?”

“She came here?”

“Oh no, she’s far too busy for that. No, I went to see her this morning after I heard what happened. The last thing this town needs is the death of a famous bard.” He led them through to a small room with a few worn wooden chairs. He indicated for Geralt to sit, taking a seat for himself.

“Now, I have a feeling I know what business it is you wish to talk about.”

“The men who attacked Jaskier. They control this town, you included,” he said, getting straight to the point.

The old man simply nodded his head. “They threatened my son and his family if I didn’t cooperate. They’ve already killed too many, I wasn’t willing to risk their lives.”

“I can get rid of them for you.”

“I can’t afford to pay you witcher.”

“I’m not here for money. I only want to know that the bard and I won’t be driven out of town if I deal with your little problem.”

The other man was silent for a moment, thinking through his options. Really there were only two. Things continue exactly as they were with the people living in fear, or the witcher could deal with the problem for free as part of his revenge. “Very well witcher. I can guarantee you and the bard can remain in this town for as long as you need if you get rid of them.”

“Tell me about these men. How many of them are there?”

“There’s eleven of them I believe. They’re ex-soldiers and mercenaries, not that most of them can actually fight. None of them are from around here. They arrived about two years ago and they just started taking over. We’re just farmers and merchants, we can’t fight back.”

Eleven men were a lot but nothing he couldn’t handle. “For everyone’s safety, you are not to breath a word of this to anyone.”

“Of course, witcher.”

With that, Geralt stood, retrieved his cloak and left. He took a meandering path back to the inn, hoping word would get around of an angry witcher stalking the streets. Men who felt threatened often made mistakes. There were a few other people around but most of them avoided him. He had no doubt that there would be outrage from the residents when it came to killing the men but the alderman seemed trustworthy and he believed he would keep his promise.

He knew Dimira would allow them to stay, she was the one who gave him the idea in the first place. She had told him about all the times they caused trouble in her tavern, constantly fighting, drinking far too much, threatening to close her down. She was tired of being their victim.

He made it to the inn eventually, dripping water everywhere. He spotted Dimira and told her of his plan and his deal with the alderman. She assured him that regardless of what was to come, if he rid the town of their pest, he and Jaskier were welcome at her inn.

He then made his way upstairs to their room. He heard gentle singing coming from behind the door. He knocked lightly to let Jaskier know he was coming in before opening the door. “Geralt! What took you so long? You left me here with nothing to do for ages.” He could tell he was mostly teasing but there was an undercurrent of worry.

“I spoke to the alderman and Dimira. They agreed we can stay if I kill the men for them.” He hung up his cloak and went to stand by the small window.

“So, you’re doing it then. Yet again getting involved when you said you wouldn’t.”

“They hurt you Jaskier. I’m not about to let them get away with that,” he growled out.

The bard was silent for a rare moment. “What’s your plan then.”

“I want to draw them out. There’s eleven of them but only a few of them are actually any good at fighting apparently. It should be fairly quick.”

“So, you’re using yourself as bait?” He seemed worried. He shouldn’t be. Geralt had used himself as bait during many monster hunts. This was no different.

“Hmm.”

“When?”

“Soon, I think. I’ve already spotted one of them. He’s just standing outside, watching.”

“Waiting for you?”

Another hum.

“You should eat,” the bard said, changing the subject. “You didn’t have any lunch earlier and if you’re going to fight, you should eat.”

Geralt picked up the plate from where he’d left it earlier and took a bite out of the bread. “How’s the pain?” he asked between mouthfuls.

Jaskier shrugged, wincing as he moved his injured shoulder. “Not as bad as it was this morning.”

“I could make you more tea,” he offered.

“It’s not bad enough for that concoction.”

Ten minutes passed. Geralt finished his food and once again checked his sword and daggers. Jaskier hummed a few of his shorter songs, plucking the occasional string on his lute. Geralt went to the window and saw three more men had arrived. No doubt more were on their way.

“They’re here.”

“Be careful,” Jaskier said as he went through the door. There was no point in bringing his cloak this time, it would only get in the way and be discarded in the mud.

Dimira gave him a quick nod as he passed the bar before he stepped out into the rain. He saw the four men from earlier and quickly spotted a fifth who had pressed himself up against the wall by the door under the small canopy. None of them made a move to attack but all were armed.

“Witcher, we heard you were planning on a bit of revenge? Not happy with our work?” One man sneered.

“You attacked an innocent man,” he growled back.

“He didn’t look so innocent to me,” said another of the men. “Looked an awful lot like he was singing the praises of a filthy monster.”

Geralt took a step toward the man, keeping his senses alert for any movement. “You beat him and left him to die.”

“It’s what he deserved.”

Geralt snapped, he didn’t mean to, but he hadn’t anticipated the rush of anger at the man’s words. He threw a well-placed punch, landing square on the man’s jaw. He staggered back as his friends drew their weapons. Geralt responded in kind, drawing his steel sword.

There was a moment of stillness before the first attack. It was the man standing by the door, swinging at Geralt’s back. He spun around to block, quickly slashing with his own sword at the man’s neck. He crumpled to the ground, crimson mixing with the mud.

The other four attacked as one, charging at him at once. Geralt used aard to push them back. They stumbled, defences down creating an opportunity for him to attack. Two more fell before a blow landed on him, striking his back. The blade bit into the leather of his armour but failed to cut through.

He spun, blocking the next attack and countering. The man fell into the dirt leaving only the one who had taunted him only moments ago. He took in the bodies and ran further into town. Geralt had no doubt it was a trap but if it meant finding the other men sooner, so be it.

He gave chase, weaving down alleys as they ran. Eventually they came to an open area near the centre of town. It was probably part of the market but in the rain all the stalls had been packed up. Three men, plus the one he chased, were waiting for him. One had a crossbow aimed at his chest. It felt eerily similar to Blaviken.

The crossbow was fired, Geralt dodged, rushing forward to attack the nearest man. His opponent swung his sword, aiming for his head. The witcher blocked, stepping forward and forcing the man back. He slipped in the mud and Geralt ran him through. There was a yell from his left and he felt a blow to his side. He managed to parry the next attack, ribs aching with the movement. There was another blow to his leg from behind, cutting through his leather trousers and leaving a burning line across his right thigh.

He pushed off the first man, moving to block the man behind him. He jabbed his sword into his stomach, halting the next attack and causing his weapon to fall to the ground. There was a twang as another crossbow bolt was fired. This time he was too distracted with the next man to do anything but raise his left arm to block it from hitting his chest, lodging itself in his bicep instead. It wasn’t deep but it was stuck in place because of his armour, causing pain to flare with every movement.

He made quick work of the remaining two men, swinging his sword too fast for them to do anything about the attacks. He took a moment to catch his breath, taking the bolt in his hand and yanking it free. Not the smartest thing to do but he couldn’t fight properly with it still lodged in his arm. There were still more of the men to fight. The wound bled but it thankfully didn’t seem to have hit anything vital.

He made a mental tally of the bodies, only counting eight. There were three more, but they were nowhere in sight. He couldn’t hear them, nor smell them anywhere nearby. They could be hiding anywhere in town, ready to jump out at him.

No, he realised he knew exactly where they had gone with rising dread. The inn. They knew Jaskier was there. It would make sense for them to take him as a hostage, a bargaining chip to make the witcher leave.

He raced back to the inn, taking a more direct route. Sure enough, as he approached, they stepped outside, dragging the injured bard with them into the driving rain. One man was holding a dagger to his throat. He was limping noticeably and a red stain had begun to spread through his trouser leg.

“Witcher, you’ve caused quite a bit of trouble here. I see why they call you butcher,” the man from last night said, cementing his theory he was the leader. “My men have obviously failed,” he said, nudging one of the bodies with his boot. He seemed disinterested, like the loss of life was a mere inconvenience.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, mutant,” he practically spat, “you’re going to leave this place and never come back. Or else we finish the job with your pet bard.” At the leader’s words, the man holding Jaskier tightened his grip, causing him to whimper in pain.

Geralt didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t let them hurt Jaskier, but he couldn’t walk away from the town knowing these men were still terrorising the people. Jaskier was right, he always got involved anyway.

He looked to the bard. He was pale and shaking, both from the pain of being forced to stand and from the freezing rain. He didn’t smell of fear though, and his eyes were full of trust. He gave a slight nod and before Geralt could figure out what he meant, Jaskier headbutted the man holding him.

The shock caused him to loosen his grip, releasing the bard. With nothing holding him upright, Jaskier sank to the ground and tried to scramble away. Geralt charged to attack the remaining men now that they had no leverage over him. He had to be quick though, before one of them managed to grab the bard again.

He dispatched the nearest man in a few blows, the second swiftly following him in death. Soon the only one remaining was the leader, holding out his sword ready to attack. He was edging his way toward where Jaskier sat, leaning against the wall. He made a move to grab him and Geralt dived at him with his sword, disarming him and pinning him against the wall.

“You don’t get to hurt him and live to brag about it,” he growled our before slowly driving his sword into his heart. He felt a certain satisfaction as the life slowly drained from his eyes. He dropped the body in a heap before turning to the bard.

He smelt faintly of adrenaline as he sat shaking in the mud. “Jaskier,” he said, kneeling next to him, checking for any new injuries.

“I’m alright Geralt. Just a bit shaken is all,” he said, trying to go for reassuring.

“Can you stand with some help?” Geralt wouldn’t be able to carry him with his injured arm.

The bard nodded and Geralt looped his arm around his back, placing the bard’s uninjured arm around his neck. Together they managed to get upright and take a few slow steps back inside the tavern. Inside was a mess, tables and chairs thrown about, smashed bottles littering the floor.

“Dimira?” he called. The woman emerged from the kitchen, presumably where she and the rest of the people in the tavern had been hiding.

“Oh, thank the gods,” she said, rushing over and righting a chair next to where they stood. Geralt carefully lowered Jaskier into it. “I feared they’d killed you both.” She began fussing over Jaskier like a mother hen. Jaskier didn’t really mind the attention. Slowly a few more people appeared from the small kitchen. He could tell from their scent they were afraid, but they didn’t seem to mind the presence of the witcher.

Much to his surprise, one man came up to him and thanked him for ridding the town of their pest. Soon a small crowd had formed around him, wanting to thank him. He didn’t know what to do, crowds were more of Jaskier’s thing.

Noticing his predicament, Jaskier started talking to the people on the witcher’s behalf, taking some of the attention from him. He didn’t really think Jaskier had the energy to spare but there wasn’t much he could do until the people dispersed.

It took Dimira shooing them away for them to eventually leave them alone. Jaskier sagged slightly, looking very much like he needed to sleep. “Your leg,” Geralt said, remembering the blood spreading through his trousers.

“I think the stitches ripped when they dragged me down the stairs,” he said with a slight frown.

“I’ll have a look at it when we get back to the room.”

“There’s an empty room in the back. It’s small but you wouldn’t have to use the stairs,” Dimira offered.

Geralt nodded, preferring that to having to try and get Jaskier up the stairs. “Can you move still?”

Jaskier nodded and Geralt assumed the same position as before, helping the bard to limp toward the back of the inn. The room was much smaller than their previous one. There was a bed shoved in the corner and just enough room to manoeuvre around it.

He helped Jaskier half fall onto the bed, jostling his leg. The bard grit his teeth and couldn’t help the groan of pain that escaped. Geralt immediately began fussing but Jaskier waved him off. “Geralt, you are currently bleeding much more than me.” Geralt only glared at him. Unfortunately, Jaskier was immune and continued his rambling. “Fine, if you let me treat your wounds, I won’t stop you looking at my leg.”

With an annoyed grunt, Geralt left the room to retrieve their medical stuff from upstairs. He returned placing the bag next to the bed where Jaskier could reach it and begrudgingly began removing his armour. Normally Jaskier would help him after a fight but he had moved himself to sit on the bed with his back against the wall and didn’t look like he had the energy to move again. He would only get in the way this time anyway.

His arm ached, blood still dripping to the floor. That was what drew the bard’s attention first. He told the witcher sit next to him on the bed as he cleaned the wound and insisted he stitch it before moving on. Of course, Jaskier would rather have stitched it himself but Geralt was in a better position to do it since he still had his dominant hand.  
The bard was uncharacteristically quiet as he worked. Normally it was something Geralt might worry about, but he put it down to exhaustion. He had barely had a chance to recover from the night before and being dragged down the stairs and into the cold rain won’t have helped.

Once that wound was tightly bandaged the bard moved on to treating the slash on the witcher’s leg. It was shallow, the sword having only glanced across his flesh. Still, Jaskier fussed, cleaning it and applying salve before bandaging it, deeming it unnecessary to stich it.

Finally, he allowed Geralt to see his own wound. It had bled considerably more than he had expected, the blood loss no doubt contributing to Jaskier’s silence. He helped him out of the lose trousers he had been wearing, carefully pulling the fabric away from the wound where it had half dried, leaving him in only his smallclothes once again. It was a mess, bandages soaked through, blood running down his leg, stitches torn.

He carefully began removing the stitches, cutting the thread where it had become caught. Geralt knew how painful torn stitches could be and was surprised at how well the bard seemed to be taking it. He glanced up at his face, finding him concerningly pale. “You doing alright?” he asked.

Jaskier only gave a small nod, not trusting himself to speak. Geralt kept going. It had to be done and leaving it would only lead to more bleeding and risk infection. Eventually he managed to remove all traced of the thread before cleaning the wound and preparing a needle.

Jaskier must have passed out at some point as once he bandaged his leg, he looked up to find the bard asleep. He quickly checked his shoulder hadn’t dislocated again before carefully moving him to a more comfortable position lying down, propping his injured leg up with a spare pillow and covering him with a blanket. He looked small and weak and Geralt couldn’t resist the urge to gently card his fingers through the bard’s damp hair.

After a moment of simply watching his friend, he stood and limped back to their previous room to get the rest of their bags and the lute. He could of course have this room for himself while Jaskier stayed downstairs, but he wanted to keep an eye on the bard. He noticed there was a sign of a struggle which he’d missed before. The bard had obviously put up a fight. The thought put a small smile on his face. He knew he wasn’t as defenceless as he liked to seem.

On his way back down the stairs, Dimira stopped him and offered to take one of the bags. He handed the lightest one to her, grateful he had a free hand to lean against the wall as he limped down the steps. “This town owes you a debt. The alderman came by to thank you, but I told him you were busy. You’ll have no troubles with the people here.”

Geralt was somewhat stunned to silence. Some small part of him was convinced he wouldn’t actually be allowed to stay. No one ever offered a free room for his services, especially when it meant the deaths of men. In his experience, they’d sooner chase him out of town than pay him what he was owed for solving their monster problems.

“Now I’ll not hear of any protests, you’re not getting payed for what you did and you both need to rest, your friend more so than you. With the gang gone people won’t be afraid to leave their homes and will come here more often. I’ll soon make back any losses if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Thank you,” was all he managed eventually, hoping she could detect the sincerity in his words. She gave a small nod before he moved past her and opened the door to the room. Jaskier was still asleep and they silently placed the bags down before Dimira left, closing the door behind her.

It was strange to think none of this would have happened only a few years ago. He had no one who he cared about, except for Roach of course. No one to hurt to get to him. And even if they had come for him directly, the outcome would be vastly different. He would be driven out of town, labelled a murderer and reinforcing his title of Butcher. But thanks to a foolish bard with his catchy songs, he was now seen as a hero and given a free room while they recovered.

He owed a great deal to Jaskier but rarely showed his gratitude. He resolved to change that. For now, he would simply let him rest.


End file.
